


Exhausted and Lost

by Tseecka



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Cuddling, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was meant to be a routine job goes horribly wrong, and Anders and Fenris nearly lose the man they love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhausted and Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Untitled](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/67584) by RJEStudio. 



Anders can barely keep his eyes open any longer, as he stands—wavers—over the wash basin and diligently scrubs at the blood that covers his hands. The daylight that had been beating in through the window has long since faded, the sky changing from blue to blood-red to black, tinged with green by the storm clouds that gather and shift overhead. He isn’t even certain, any longer, just how long he’s been awake.   
  
It had seemed like a routine job—as routine as they ever got for the Champion and his entourage, at least. Travel to the Coast, find the rebellious mages, make up a story about ‘putting down the maleficar’ as they ferried the escapees to freedom; return and collect the reward.   
  
Except this time, somewhere between “find the mages” and “explain to the mages that they were there to help”, something had gone wrong. They had already been up nearly sixteen hours, unwilling to rest while other, less savoury bounty hunters were also closing in on the hiding place of three young enchanters, and perhaps that was the reason that Anders hadn’t been fast enough with a shielding spell. Perhaps that was why Hawke had been so easily distracted from the sword that had swung at him, slicing a deep, horrific gash across his belly.  
  
Anders didn’t remember what had happened after that; he just remembered blinking, and seeing the bodies of the mages scattered around him, and Hawke bleeding out on the cave floor.   
  
It had taken another six hours to get Hawke out of the cave and back to Kirkwall, their travel time severely hampered by multiple stops for Anders—mana fully depleted, strength and fortitude waning—to cast what weak healing spells he could, attempting to keep the other man’s intestines where they were supposed to be. Varric and Aveline had run ahead, forcing themselves past the point of exhaustion, to find Fenris at his mansion and alert him that Anders and Hawke needed help.   
  
He had come to meet them, Anders staggering under Hawke’s dead weight, covered in the man’s blood, and their anguished stares had met for only a moment before Fenris had hauled Hawke’s body across his shoulders and set off at a determined lope for the city, Anders trailing along behind as his vision blinked out in spots of black and white from the sheer physical exhaustion. Even once they returned, it had been another four hours after that of patient, physical work, with bandages and needle and thread and spells only when he could manage, Fenris with a hand clamped to his shoulder for physical support as much as emotional.  
  
Only now had Anders felt safe in proclaiming the man’s life saved, in making the prognosis that no, he would neither bleed out nor lose his internal organs. He had left Fenris with Hawke, ripped the blood-stained sheets from the bed, and taken both they and himself out of the room. The sheets were bundled in with the trash, ready to be burned or thrown out or otherwise disposed of; and he had taken himself to wash.   
  
He scrapes at the blood that has dried under his nails, unseeing, trying to force every bit of the stain out of his skin. He’s been in this room for nearly an hour, he thinks, judging by the progress of the moon across the sky. An hour, to soak and soap and eradicate all traces of his love’s lifeblood coating him. He examines his nails again, notices his hand is shaking, and ingores it. The las tof the blood is gone; he won’t know the extent of the stains until the morning, when he can compare the tinge of his hands to the tint of his skin and be assured that he’s rid himself of all of it.   
  
He strips out of the bloodstained robes, planning to add them to the incineration pile, and dresses in a soft green shirt and deerskin pants. The clothes are Hawke’s; while they are similarly broad of shoulder, his frame is slighter, his muscles smaller, and the clothes drape off of him as though he’s made of nothing but straw. He tilts the washbasin out the window, watches the red-stained water rush down the trough and into the downspout, and sighs heavily.   
  
When he returns to Hawke’s room, he hesitates only a moment in the doorway. Fenris has changed the sheets on the bed to the white linens, the ones that Hawke never uses because they hurt his eyes and, he says, they are too much effort to keep clean. The elf has similarly dressed in some of Hawke’s old clothes, in a light teal tunic that threatens to slide right off of his narrow shoulders, and black pants that engulf his legs in shapeless shows, hide his calloused feet. He’s sitting on the bed, hand resting protectively, possessively, on Hawke’s shoulder, with the man’s head pillowed in his lap.   
  
Anders can see from here the way that his eyes barely blink, his gaze never leaving Hawke for even a moment, even when he clears his throat and enters the room. He speaks, though, in a whisper that is both unnecessary—Hawke won’t be waking for a long time—and respectful.   
  
"I should have been there."  
  
Anders frowns at that, eyes half closed as he wraps his arms around the elf and rests his chin on his shoulder. He joins Fenris in gazing down at their lover as the man slumbers, the crease of pain finally, blessedly, gone from his brow. Anders had regained enough mana to accomplish that, at least.   
  
"You were exhausted, Fen; there was no reason to think anything would go wrong." It had been routine, after all.   
  
Fenris lets out a long breath, one hand reaching up to gently brush over the back of Anders’ fingers before dropping back to the bed, and Anders can feel the way he sags. The battle against Danarius, only a few days before, had taken a lot out of the elf both physically and emotionally, he knows; it was the reason Hawke had asked him to stay behind, the reason Fenris had agreed without argument. According to Merrill, who had stopped by partway through the—the surgery, he supposes, Fenris had been sleeping for the better part of two days. Anders can feel how much that was nowhere near enough.  
  
They are silent for a moment more, both of them just drawing in long breaths and releasing, unconsciously in time with each other and with the steady rise and fall of the Champions back. Anders tilts his head, nuzzles tiredly against Fenris’ cheek.   
  
"He’s not going to vanish in a puff of smoke as soon as your back is turned—go get some sleep."  
  
Fenris huffs a laugh at that, shakes his head. “You’re dead on your feet, mage,” he says, his tone gruff and affectionate and as exhausted as Anders feels. “You sleep—I’ll watch over him.”  
  
Anders wants to argue, but he’s tired and he’s drained and he can’t summon the energy to. He ducks his head, presses first his lips and then his forehead to Fenris’ shoulder in quiet entreaty. “Let’s both sleep,” he suggests, and draws his hands down Fenris’ arms to wind their fingers together. The elf stifles a yawn, and for a moment Anders thinks he will argue; but then he nods.   
  
Together, moving slowly and carefully, they adjust Hawke’s sleeping position on the bed. Fenris strips off the tattered remnants of his clothing, removes the last of the light leather armour, and drapes the lightweight sheet over his sleeping form as Anders turns down the covers. He holds the blanket up for Fenris to slide in first, then follows him, tucking himself along the elf’s back as Fenris turns onto his side. Their hands entwine, and Fenris carefully reaches out to tuck his toes between Hawke’s calves, reassuring himself that the skin is warm and the man is still breathing. Anders props his head up on a pillow, and the two of them watch the sleeping man until they, too, are claimed by exhaustion. 


End file.
